


Healing

by chucksangel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, F/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8341084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucksangel/pseuds/chucksangel
Summary: Dean and you are talking about his scars from hunting, then he tries to ask you about yours.





	

“How many of these did you get by hunting demons or angels?” you half laughed half cried. 

“Probably most of them,” Dean admitted, grinning. 

“What about this one?” You inquired, your warm finger running across his forearm where a silvery scar gleams.

“That is from one of the many times proving that I’m not a monster.” Dean tells you, taking your hand in his. 

“I used to have one right here,” he adds, bringing your hand to his right wrist. “I got it from mishandling a hunting knife as a boy. Somehow dying resurrects your body into perfect condition.”

“I still think your liver is dying.” you stubbornly tell him. Almost ever since you first met the Winchesters, you knew Dean drank much more than Sam. And you a) told him to quit because he was an alcoholic, b) told him he would die of liver failure, or c) said you wouldn’t test to see if your livers were matches.

Dean merely rolled his eyes at your comment, and continued. He let go of your hands, and took off his shirt. You couldn’t help but stare at his body. Dean didn’t have a perfect eight pack anymore, and definitely had a little bit of a beer belly. Nonetheless, Dean was toned and muscular. And just so goddamned hot. 

You jerked your eyes up back to Dean’s green ones, which were intently watching yours. A blush turned your face scarlet, but Dean didn’t seem to care. He took your hand again, and placed it on his chest. 

“This is where Metatron stabbed me with his angel blade… Only for me to return as a demon.” 

Dean never spoke about his time with the Mark of Cain. _Ever_. You had met him just after he released the Darkness, when the Winchesters still didn’t know what that was. Dean especially never spoke about him as a demon. Sure, he would allude to it and how terrible he was then and the guilt that he still feels from it, but never had he ever admitted directly that he had been a demon. 

At Dean’s honestly, your eyebrows knitted together and began to feel that familiar feeling in your stomach-the one that you’ve ignored ever since you had met Dean Winchester. You bit your lip, and Dean brought your hand to his face. 

With your pointer finger, he had you trace his cheekbone. “Here I was cut, but as a Demon I healed it… So no scar.” Dean whispered, his eyes looking at your lips. 

But then the atmosphere of the room shifted, just as suddenly as a light switch being turned off. 

Dean’s eyes were on your wrist. The one you desperately tried to always hide. 

Dean took your wrist and made your arm be palm up, exposing your scarred arms. Some much more fresh than the others. 

You tried to pull your arm away from Dean; your reaction was to hide your arm, not show it. Nobody wanted to see or talk about the shit that goes on in your head. 

But of course, Dean was stronger than you.

“It’s nothing!” You snap, the lie easy for you. 

“It certainly doesn’t look like nothing,” Dean replied.

“Well it is!”

Dean’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Why’d you do it?”

You were still struggling to get your arm back and it was a pretty vain attempt. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” Dean challenged. 

You stared into his green eyes, not breaking his gaze. He stared right back to your y/e/c eyes.

You looked away first, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Fine!” you huffed in defeat. Dean let go of your wrist and you tugged the sleeve of your shirt down. “It’s just hard for me sometimes.” You begin. “I mean, I know it’s hard for you all too, if not harder… But I just have these terrible thoughts that tell me to do bad things. I don’t want to give in, but when I do, or almost do… I harm myself. I know it’s bad and I should find a better way to cope with my problems… but I always end up back here. It’s an addiction. Once you start, it’s hard to stop. Because it’s not like I haven’t tried. I really have. I always relapse. Always. And I hate myself so much for it, which just makes it worse.” 

Dean kept quiet the entire time you explained yourself, and you could see the sympathy in his eyes when you glanced up at him. He wiped away tears, trying not to cry (and failing).

You shifted uncomfortably. When you told people what they were, sympathy was the last thing you wanted. You added, “So, yeah…” 

Instead of reprimanding you or telling you alternate ways to cope, Dean pulled you in for a hug. You curled against his warm chest, and you felt a few tears roll down your cheeks. You hated talking about it, but it also took so much pressure off of your shoulders. 

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” Dean whispered. “I just want to help you get better, because I care about you.”


End file.
